


My Own Worst Enemy

by swordliliesandebony



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 23:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12330672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: For the FFXV Chocobros Gift Exchange Prompt:Prompto is having difficulties with his self image. The stretch marks littering his body make him hate himself more than he can deal with. Thank god Ignis is to the rescue and lets him know that every part of him is just perfect.





	My Own Worst Enemy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stubsel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stubsel/gifts).



Prompto absolutely can’t stand it. It being himself, more often than not. It absolutely being himself now, where he’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror, just barely willing himself to look. He doesn’t actually have to look, not really. He knows what he’s going to see because he sees it every god damn day. He sees the lines, some faded and white, some deep and pink and clear as day, running vicious lines from his pelvis, reaching upward to the bottom of his ribcage. They strangle him. They make it harder to breathe. His fingers trace the lines, dig in, deepen. He’s making matters worse by obsessing. It’s not as if obsessing managed to make anything better.

It feels like a defeat every goddamn day. He thinks about the meals he skips and the runs he lengthens. He thinks about the days he pesters Gladio to show him what to do in the weight room. He thinks about himself and his photos and his impossibly inching change toward someone worth seeing and being around and just flat-out being. He thinks about the fact that he’s had himself holed up in Noctis’s bathroom for far too long, water running wasted, excuses running thing. Ignis, he thinks, is standing by the door. Ignis, he knows, is waiting for him wherever he’s standing.

The thought makes his heart flutter a violent rhythm in his chest. His fingers move up, dragging and deep and pulling those lines higher until he feels the frantic beat at the pads of his fingers, buried somewhere beneath all of that freckled skin. He hates it. He hates that soft quality to his flesh, the promise that there’s  _ still  _ fat beneath, still far too much of it. Maybe feeling sick isn’t such a bad thing. He won’t feel compelled toward dinner, at very least. His eyes are burning, swollen pink stinging back at him. They seem...dull. Defeated. He doesn’t want Ignis to see him this way. He doesn’t want Ignis to see him at all, the more he considers it. He thinks it would be nice, so unspeakably nice, if there was a window in the stupid bathroom to throw himself from.

A knock sounds at the door, sudden and sharp. Prompto’s heart leaps against his fingertips and his hand draws away, a strange bit of disgust clouding his psyche at the sensation. He turns to stare at the closed door and hesitates. He isn’t really surprised, but he’s startled and he’s left without much recourse. Will Ignis question how long he’s spent in here, when he’s only meant to be changing for bed? He’s already been given a very curious, pointed eye over the fact that he insisted on changing in here, when they’re poised to curl up together all the same, likely enough with roaming hands and ill intent. 

“Just a minute!” his voice cracks and Prompto wants to kick himself for it. He catches the edge of a cringe  in the mirror. He needs to speed things up. The time limit on quiet self-hatred, it seems, clocks around ten minutes or so. He considers excuses, but each seems to wear thin in his brain before it can touch his tongue. He turns, quick, kicks through his discarded clothes to search for the shirt he’d planned to sleep in. The pajama pants, at least, are already hanging from his hips. A little bit low. He tightens the draw further up, frowns when they only slip again, then gets back to work.

It’s Noct’s apartment, primarily, but Prompto has found more of a home in it than back with his parents. It goes almost without saying that, between the two of them, the apartment tends more toward disaster zone than livable space. No matter how hard Ignis will sweep in behind them, lecturing and tidying, it never seems to stick. Rather, it never sticks when they’re both inhabiting the place. As it happens, Noctis has been whisked away on a much-dreaded ‘good learning experience’ with the King, and as it also happens, Prompto can’t quite keep up with all that mess-making. Particularly not with how much time Ignis has been spending here right along with him.

Ignis isn’t one for excuses. Prompto has been aware of that since the first time he met him. He’s pretty sure if asked, Ignis would spout on about a lacking of dignity or being unbefitting of his position or a million other things that don’t entirely hit a mark with Prompto, but which sound so damn good when he says them. Ignis, he found out right away, sounds pretty damn good saying just about anything. The point being, Ignis hasn’t remained in Insomnia under any false pretenses, no matter how much it feels like there might have been things like ulterior motives involved with his decision.

He really does have a handful of papers due for his university courses. And he really does have a number of midterms following them. He’s Ignis, though, so the papers have been completed for weeks and the studying is so constant and ongoing that Prompto isn’t entirely convinced there was a real reason that he wouldn’t be on the trip. Well, not beyond the obvious one, which involves Ignis knocking at the door, asking if everything is okay; telling Prompto he’s forgotten his shirt.

Right. His shirt. That was what got him to this whole line of thinking, relating to the strange cleanliness of the floor and the lack of stray clothing to pick from strewn across it. As much as Ignis is some sort of strange superhero to Prompto’s mind, and as much as he usually  _ appreciates  _ that unfathomable sort of responsibility, he’s definitely cursing it now. 

The relationship between Prompto and Ignis is complicated and confusing, at least by Prompto’s way of seeing it. Noctis had caught on right away, that Prompto couldn’t quite keep his eyes off the royal advisor. There had been teasing and joking, paired with a little bit of cajoling toward action. Prompto had blushed and sputtered and denied it all tooth and nail. And then, when he went home at night, or when he found himself curled on the folded-out couch after another night spent at the apartment, Ignis would dominate his thoughts. Conversations he was too afraid to have, conversations he knew would go badly, they flooded through him. Daydreams started to shift, to involve things like wandering hands and soft lips. It all went worse from there.

Prompto was at his wit’s end before any move was made. It had been weeks since he had first encountered Ignis at that point, enough time to start to really and properly get to know him. Truth be told, Prompto was absolute in awe of the man. Ignis is scary smart, way too responsible, disgustingly handsome. He is, in short, everything Prompto totally wishes he could be and everything Prompto knows he absolutely isn’t. Maybe there was a bit of hero worship involved, or maybe just a proper pedestal built for an absolutely severe crush. Whatever there was on Prompto’s side, he had discounted it immediately.

Guys like Ignis didn’t like people like Prompto. Full stop. They were from two entirely different worlds. Hell, they might as well have been from two opposite galaxies for all the difference between them. So when Ignis was nice, outwardly kind and occasionally complimentary and generally an unbelievably pleasant person to be around, Prompto was fast at work making excuses for the motive. The obvious one, the one that Prompto still has the occasional struggle in shaking, is that Prompto and Noctis’s friendship was seen as a positive. That much, even if it didn’t wind up to be Ignis’s reasoning for anything beyond cordiality, is fair and likely enough to be the truth. Whatever teasing exists about poor influences and shared habits, the bond they formed was near instantaneous and deep and more beneficial than it was bothersome. They brought out the best of each other, even if they also occasionally seemed capable of bringing out the worst. It was only natural that Ignis would approve of that.

It was more than just a beneficial friendship, though. It all came out in a burst, after Noctis had sniffed out the root of Prompto’s sudden shifts in behaviour. They weren’t huge changes, just little things. Maybe he looked a little bit more put-together when he was only lounging around the apartment. He took a tendency to actually make an attempt- at least at opportune times- to do his schoolwork. He would pester Ignis for help on an assignment here or there. And then he would pester him in the kitchen, taking a sudden interest in cooking. They were good excuses, Prompto thought, to get a little bit closer to the guy. It was ridiculous, in retrospect. Disgustingly obvious. He shouldn’t have been so much as startled when Noctis called him on the point. When he said that, if he liked Ignis so much, maybe he should just have a go at him. Prompto brushed it all off, until Noctis got that stupid smug look on his face and simply said that if Prompto didn’t want to tell him,  _ he  _ could always help with that bit. 

Prompto still has to fight off a cringe when he recounts the situation, all sputtering and tomato cheeks and a suddenly very weak grasp on any intelligible language. And, in the end, Ignis had smiled at him and stifled down one of those appealing little chuckles he’s prone to and assured him that the feeling was quite mutual. It’s been  _ months  _ since that conversation and Prompto still hasn’t quite worked away the butterflies from it.

There are all the other things he’s not worked away, either. Namely, the absolutely crippling battle he fights with reflections and scales, rendering him hopeless and panicked and locked in the bathroom while Ignis asks again if he’s quite alright. He doesn’t respond to that right away, because he’s too busy trying to recall exactly how breathing works, trying to work out exactly how he proceeds from here. There is a mountain of problems, an impossible weight crushing at Prompto’s chest with whatever will come next. The process of envisioning what that next is, that’s horribly difficult.

He knows he’s been weird in this relationship. He still feels weird even knowing there’s a relationship to be weird  _ in _ . It’s all simple things, at least to start. It’s an arm linked around his waist or a treat to dinner without Noctis around. It’s laying curled into each other on the couch while Noctis teases through whatever movie they’re all very good at ignoring. It’s hands slotting together a little bit too easily, too naturally. It’s a kiss. That’s where it stops being so simple. It’s a kiss here and there. Then it’s a lot of kisses. Then it’s kisses that end up with Prompto perched in Ignis’s lap, with hands starting to roam until Prompto spooks, until fingers tug at the hem of his shirt and he clams up, swears they’ve gone far enough. And  _ then  _ it’s concerned looks and confusions and conversations Prompto doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to have. One of those conversations is doubtless on the other side of the door.

“I forgot my shirt,” his voice is strangled against the wood. Ignis knows that. Ignis told him that. So why is he panicking? Why is this so difficult for him? Prompto wants to kick himself. He knows exactly why it’s so difficult. As a matter of fact, he knows a thousand reasons it’s so difficult. Ranging from his worthiness in this relationship to his worthiness as a damn person, to the fear that Ignis, seeing his body as it is, will realize the grave mistake he’s made. The doorknob makes an attempt at twisting against his hip. It’s locked, small thanks for foresight there, so it only rattles a little with Ignis’s effort.

“I have it right here. You should open the door,” Ignis’s voice, for its part, has an unusual tone of confusion. Ignis, Prompto thinks, doesn’t get confused. Not much is beyond his grasp at a moment’s noticed. Again, scary smart. Scary perceptive. Prompto is sure he’s caught on, to some extent. He’s sure that Ignis is aware of the shortcomings here, of the fact that Prompto is skating horribly thin ice and that he’s prepared, at any moment, to take a fatal plunge. As it happens, Prompto is already entirely frozen in place, hand hovering at the knob, mind shifting between desperately racing and completely stalling out.

Prompto is pretty good at reading into things. When his mind works through modes that resemble thinking, he can come to appreciate Ignis’s words to an extent. They’re not entirely forceful, not saying that Prompto  _ must  _ open the door. They’re not asking or pleading either, though. It’s a suggestion, more than anything. It’s Ignis leaving the decision to him, consciously or not. Prompto would appreciate that, if he wasn’t so prone to and lost in absolutely unbearable panic. He takes a step back from the door. He’s a little bit afraid his knees are going to give out with the moving. He gets a glance of skin in the mirror. A little bit above his hip, another pound or two that he can’t quite shake. It makes him feel all hot and cold and hopeless all over again.  He winces when he flips the little lock on the doorknob, when he squeaks out a strangled, ‘it’s open’ and steps back further.

He considers tugging a towel up to his chest, hiding some of that stretched, freckled, undesirable flesh. He looks awful. He always looks awful. Why is he letting Ignis see him like this? He thinks he’s prone toward a heart attack when the door slips open. He can’t look at Ignis. It would be too much, to see his expression at this sight, at Prompto far too exposed, trembling, breathing too fast, barely holding on. His neck strains the way he looks away. He doesn’t hear footsteps, but he feels the warmth of Ignis moving closer, senses the shift in light and air that tells him he’s standing terribly close.

“Prompto. What’s going on?” Ignis speaks in gentle tones, but there’s a firm undercurrent and, damn it, his fingers cup Prompto’s chin and make him face in, make him look up into those stupid perfect eyes. His own are pink and swollen and spilling again and it’s that much more reason for Prompto to want to run and hide, to snatch away the shirt and pile himself in blankets and pretend that this moment never passed between them. He doesn’t do that, though; he doesn’t even attempt to do that, however much he might want to. He levels a look at Ignis instead, with his lip trembling and his body near following suit.

“I forgot my shirt,” he whispers the words again, and he’s feeling every part the over-emotional child. He  _ is  _ an over-emotional child, he thinks. That’s absolutely how Ignis must be seeing him now, with those eyes that burn through Prompto so damn effortlessly. Prompto thinks that, if he can just snatch the shirt away from Ignis’s hand, at least he can get out of the situation. He can run away, maybe actually go back to his parents’ place for once. Which, admittedly, isn’t a good plan. He might be nervous staying here, uncomfortable, highly interested in sinking through any number of floors and out of existence, but at least he isn’t  _ alone _ . At least he’s somewhere he feels, for just a moment, like he’s wanted. Or, in any case,  _ usually  _ feels like he’s wanted.

“I have it right here,” Ignis holds that one, gentle and soothing and a little bit firm. Prompto feels the cotton pressed into his hand and, with some effort, he can break the gaze. He can get a tear-blurred look at the shirt crumpling in his fist before he glances back up at Ignis. He’s trying to hold it together, really he is, but it’s something of a lost cause at this point. He still feels like he’s on fire, sweating bullets, all that. He still feels like the world would be a considerably better place if he could drop out of it, just for a little bit. And he still feels those eyes boring through him, even while he’s shifting the shirt back and forth in his hands, even when he breaks the gaze again to watch the garment shift back and forth, going well-wrinkled under the stress. The damage, after all, has already been done.

“If you tell me what’s going on, I may be able to help,” Ignis is choosing his words carefully again, which is no real surprise. Ignis, Prompto is pretty sure, is  _ always  _ choosing his words carefully. He’s always putting the right emphasis in the right places. He’s leaving outs where they’re deserved or required and he’s honing in on the bits that really do need to be addressed. It’s totally maddening, just how good he is with his words, just how good he is at all of this. It’s all in stark contrast, of course, with how good Prompto is  _ not _ , at just about anything. Prompto sucks in a breath and he swallows it down, something between nervous habit and old trick, making his stomach feel uncomfortably full when the stress has it roiling to start.

“Can you shave, like, ten pounds off me? Pretty sure that’s the only thing that’s gonna help,” Prompto’s voice is dry and humorless even as he means to present the words as something at least akin to a joke. He can’t look at Ignis’s face for that. He stares at his thumbs, gripping and relaxing and worrying further at his shirt. Ignis doesn’t say anything. He knows, of course, that Prompto will keep speaking. Ridiculously perceptive.

“Didn’t really want you to see me like this. I look better with clothes on. Like, lots of clothes. I don’t…” Prompto feels his voice give in for a moment but he clears his throat and he powers right on through, maybe a little bit proud of himself for that performance, “I don’t,” he begins again, “need you to figure out how far down you’re dating already.”

There’s a pause, and it’s a long one. A moment of heavy silence between them, thick enough that Prompto feels like he’s choking. Or maybe that’s just the panic again. He’s been in that particular place, with strangling anxiety weighing on his chest and squeezing through his lungs more times than he can count. He thinks the silence makes it worse. He can hear his breathing, fast and uneven with the attempt to stave off sobs, to swallow down all of that outward emotion he’s never been any good at hiding. He can hear his heart pounding through his ears, violent and relentless, giving him an equal aching throb between them. God damn it, he wants to run.

“I assume you have no idea how ridiculous that is,” Ignis says, still slow and even, still with that strangely soothing quality to his voice. Prompto’s eyes dart, harsh and narrow. He’s ready to argue that point. He’s ready to unleash a lifetime of insecurity and self-hatred. He’s lucky, really, that Ignis has him by the forearms now, that he’s guiding him slowly and carefully to sit on the closed toilet. He’s lucky that he’s distracted by Ignis kneeling down close, hands planted on Prompto’s thighs, eyes cast up in a tired sort of concern. A little rush of guilt filters through Prompto’s head. They’re meant to be heading to bed. Ignis is clearly exhausted. He shouldn’t be here trying to make Prompto feel better. But, even so, Prompto  _ likes  _ that Ignis is doing just that. He appreciates the gesture, fruitless as he suspects it will be.

“It’s not ridiculous,” Prompto says, in a voice once again far too much like a child. He’ll be embarrassed about his behaviour later. He’s embarrassed about his behaviour now, though in a way that takes a back seat given every other insecurity. He crosses his arms against his belly, only for Ignis to carefully reach and pry them away, to get their hands together. Prompto  _ detests  _ this. He doesn’t want Ignis to keep looking at him. He doesn’t like feeling so exposed, so clearly on display, “have you seen yourself?”

“I have. And I’ve seen you. Not quite so much of you as I’d like, but enough to know that you’re mistaken here,” Ignis is so damn confident, always so assured in himself. It makes Prompto want to believe him, even if he’s not quite able to make the leap between wanting and doing. He gives a mighty sniff though and he squeezes Ignis’s hands a little and he even tries to straighten himself. It’s too late for modesty, after all. He can at least play at better angles than ones where he’s hunched over, halfway to tears.

“I’m a total mess, Iggy. My skin’s all loose and stretched out. I’m still fat, no matter how hard I work out. I’ve got all these freckles, and my nose-”

“-is perfect. Quite like the rest of you,” Ignis slides in a little bit closer, pajama-clad knees slipping easily into place on the tile floor. His expression remains calm, gentle, inviting even. It makes Prompto a little bit angry, if he’s being honest. Ignis  _ must  _ see it, after all. He must see every one of those flaws, even without Prompto pointing them out. So why is he pretending he doesn’t? Or, why is he pretending they don’t matter? Prompto knows better than that. He knows every damn problem with his body, thoroughly and intimately. He knows every change it has undergone, every stretch mark- whether they’re still dark and bruise-like and heavy or faded down to pale oblivion- every scar, everything. He knows, too, that Ignis doesn’t share any of those points. He’s seen him at training, when he’s shining with sweat, all gleaming and glistening on perfectly defined, perfectly sculpted muscles. He’s seen him crawl into bed, nothing but shorts when the months are warmer. He’s  _ felt  _ that warm, taut skin pressed up against him, though he was of course as heavily clothed as he could tolerate. 

“I’m not perfect. I’m not even  _ decent.  _ I’m definitely not good enough for you,” Prompto’s eyes cast down again and he shakes his head. He loosens his grip at Ignis’s hands, but the other man only picks up the slack, squeezing instead in return. There’s a look on his face that is quite near stricken and it makes Prompto feel guilty yet again. Only a little bit, though, because he’s  _ right  _ god damn it. He’s right and Ignis must know that. The guy’s not blind. 

“I think your perception may be a little flawed. Should I fetch your glasses?” Ignis smiles at his own joke and, hell, Prompto does just a little bit too. He even chokes on a tiny chuckle and shakes his head, “Listen to me, Prompto. I’m perfectly willing to hear your concerns, but I’d like to say my part first. Can we agree on that?”

Prompto isn’t sure how he feels about the proposed deal. Ignis is pretty smooth with words after all, and there’s a fair chance that, by the end of it, Prompto won’t want to say anything at all. But, then again, is that such a bad thing? It’s a strange sort of block in his mind, when it comes down to it. Prompto doesn’t  _ want  _ to hate himself, not in theory at least. He’s something of a perfectionist, though, at least in this case. He holds himself to far higher standards than he would anyone else. And, if he were to lower those standards, wouldn’t that be admitting some sort of defeat? It feels  _ wrong  _ to think that he might be happy with himself, that he might not be critical. Maybe that’s all part of the problem.

“Okay,” he finally agrees, with just a hint of a nod. This is enough to win him the briefest of smiles from Ignis and, really, that almost makes Prompto feel like it’s properly worth it. Almost. He’s still not sure what can be said, or what he wants to hear from it. He definitely doesn’t know he feels just now, with Ignis trying so fervently to reassure him. Prompto is, quite simply, more inclined to wallow in this sort of thought. It’s not that most people are so outwardly cruel to him as he is to himself. And, really, it’s not been quite so bad since he struck up the friendship with Noct. The problem comes with this part, with the relationship, with the deep unknown. It’s a lot more than just walking to and from classes or watching movies or playing games. It’s all sorts of things that Prompto has only worked up the nerve to consider privately, in the utter isolation he experiences those few nights he spends at ‘home’. 

“First, I think you’re putting far too much stock into looking a certain way. There are more important things to be concerned with,” Ignis starts in a way that makes Prompto wince. He’s pretty sure that Noct has told him the same thing before, maybe in slightly less eloquent phrasing. It doesn’t exactly make him feel better, to have his concerns brushed away, to have that little obsession placed as unimportant. The feeling only lasts a moment though, because Ignis continues, “however, it’s important to you, so I’m going to be very honest, and I want you to understand that I’m being very honest here.”

Prompto thinks that if those words were said by anyone else he would be mortified. Not only that, but he would be inclined to believe just the opposite. That they were pulling a sort of, ‘not to be mean, but…’ to cushion whatever horribly mean thing they’re about to say. It’s different with Ignis, though. Prompto  _ trusts  _ him. That’s pretty scary, now that he thinks of it in those exact terms. Still, he nods slowly in agreement.

“You look good, Prompto. You look very, very good. Your freckles are charming. They suit you. They go very well with your smile, in fact. I’d have to say it’s a favored feature,” Ignis is smiling himself a little and it coaxes Prompto, a little flush-faced, to follow suit. From there, it’s a sort of chain reaction, with Ignis’s eyes lighting just a bit and Prompto’s smile widening a little more, despite the swollen sting of his eyes, the wet heat still gathered at their corners.

“Stretch marks are natural. You’re young and growing. And, I’m to understand, you shed quite a lot of weight. They’ll fade over time,” Prompto isn’t convinced on that part. There’s nothing fun about looking up solutions to a problem to find pages and pages of recently or newly or currently pregnant people sharing tips. And those tips don’t exactly seem to work all that well in the end, anyway. Time. That’s what it all comes down to. Time and patience. Prompto doesn’t have much of the latter and he really doesn’t deal well with thoughts of the former. Time is a big, scary, looming threat, particularly over this relationship. Ignis will, eventually, be moving on from him, like it or not. He has duties primarily to Noctis, to the Prince and far too soon to the King he will become. Prompto doesn’t have a place at court. His only real friendships live on a very stark time limit, and anything that reminds him of that fact he’d rather set aside.

“And,” Ignis continues, “even if they never faded, they don’t look so bad to me. It’s another part of you, Prompto. And you, the person, not the weight or scars or anything else, is what I care about,” his voice goes a little firm here and Prompto absolutely is blushing at this point. He feels his heart thumping hard again, though in a more pleasant, less panicked way. Maybe Ignis really does know what Prompto needs to hear, even if he’s not so sure he ever wants to, or is at least ready, to hear it. 

“Kinda make it hard to feel bad about myself when you’re so smooth, y’know,” Prompto waits a long time before saying it. He’s still sniffing here and there and, eventually, he takes one hand out of Ignis’s so he can swipe at the remaining wetness on his face. He feels  _ better,  _ which is a pretty damn strange feeling if he’s being honest. It’s been a long time since, or maybe this is the first time, someone has managed to say something to actually make him feel better. Not just better, either. Worthwhile. Cared-for. It’s not a sensation Prompto knows entirely how to deal with. Still, he’s smiling a shaky little smile and he’s making the joke and even having a wet hint of a laugh over it.

“That’s precisely the point I’m after,” Ignis is slow to his feet, but when he manages to get up, he helps Prompto to follow. It’s a little bit of a shaky go of things at first. Prompto is still tense, still a little bit worked up over all of those emotions, all of that panic that still hasn’t entirely dissipated. But he’s standing and he’s not falling over, and when Ignis starts their walk out of the bathroom- Prompto still not having bothered with his shirt- he doesn’t hesitate, “and I told you. I’m being honest, not smooth.”

“Sounds like something a guy who knows he’s super smooth would say.”

“Perhaps,” Ignis admits it with a smirk. He’s drawn them back to the bedroom, to Noct’s bed all freshly made, perfectly pressed sheets. In short, in a state it would never remain were its owner actually occupying it. He guides Prompto in first, makes sure to get him settled comfortably on one side before he crawls in opposite. Things won’t go further- they never do. Prompto’s not there yet, but he thinks he’s getting a lot closer. He’s not upset by the fact though, and he likes to think Ignis isn’t either. He doesn’t display any displeasure, at very least, and he still jokes, “got you into bed, in any case.”

Prompto doesn’t say anything directly in response to that, but he fights back a laugh and gives Ignis a little shove beneath the covers, all while he’s crawling closer, settling himself up in his arms. There’s still a lot to unpack in his mind. The difficulties will doubtless return, and Prompto will unquestionably need to be reassured about a hundred more times, but for the moment, he feels happy. He feels good. He feels like he belongs there, in Ignis’s arms, quickly drifting into sleep, and that’s enough for now.


End file.
